ABUSE Archives | Sell My Story

Historic sexual abuse: Mum muffled my cries after dad raped me.

May 31, 2016 by Emmie Harrison

SellUsYourStory.com is part of the largest independent press agency in the UK. We help hundreds of people share their stories. This week brave Alissa Moore, 52, waived her anonymity to speak out against the horrific historical sexual abuse she endured for ten years at the hands of her dad – while her mum looked on.

If you have been the victim of rape, current or historical sexual abuse or domestic violence, please contact our team today using the story valuation form on this page. Our trained writers help hundreds of people every year share their stories to help those living through a similar situation. Your story really can have an impact on other people’s lives.

I was seven years old, and about to become a big sister again. I couldn’t wait to have a little baby to play with. My little sister, five, was sounds asleep next to me in bed, a smile playing on her lips.

We were inseparable as we were both petrified of our dad Dad James, 32.

Alissa as a young girl.

Sometimes, he’d push my Mum Joan, 27, or grab her arm so hard that it bruised. She acted as if it was normal. Then one evening, my Mum disappeared. I heard footsteps approach on the stairs. Dad slowly pushed the door open and grabbed my arm. I wished my sister was awake to help me.

His yellowing teeth formed a grin that left me stiff with fear. I had seen him grinning at Mum just like that, when he wanted to get his own way, or she did something he didn’t like.

He always lost his temper at anything and just hit out, so I didn’t struggle. He led me out of my bedroom and downstairs into the sitting room, and his rasping breath made my skin crawl.

Then he sat on the sofa and said, ‘Lift up your nightie, now.’ Scared stiff and confused, I did as he said. With his grubby fingers he started touching me. I was like a puppet as he took my hands and made me touch him.

Next he laid me on the sitting room floor and forced himself inside me. ‘Agh,’ I whimpered. The pain was excruciating. ‘Shut up,’ he snarled as I cried. I stared at the cracks in the ceiling for what felt like hours.

Is this what all daddies do with their little girls? I thought about my mum and hoped that she would run in the room to come and save me. But she didn’t.

‘Go to bed now,’ Dad barked when it was over. I cried myself to sleep, confused and in pain.

Next day, Mum came home from hospital with a baby girl in her arms. But I just felt numb. When we were alone in the kitchen, I tugged at her skirt. I blurted out: ‘Daddy hurt me.’

She stopped dead and slowly turned around with a look of shock. Shock quickly turned to disgust. ‘Go away, just shut up and stop it,’ she said.

Alissa as a young girl.

My eyes filled with hot tears. Then I heard familiar footsteps outside the kitchen. Dad. He threw me to the kitchen floor and started raining blows all over my body. I felt my legs and ribs exploding in pain.

Leaving me battered and bruised on the carpet, he stormed out.

How did he know? Did Mum tell him? Looking up, I saw her watching me whimper on the carpet. She’d seen it all.

‘Shush, stop it will you?’ she tutted, turning her back on me. I couldn’t believe it. I felt so alone. How could my own mum let this happen?

I couldn’t go to school for weeks as my face was so swollen with bruises, and my body hurt from the beatings. I could hardly open my eyes as they were so swollen. After that, Dad raped me every week.

He’d come into my room at night and put his hand over my mouth to stop my screams. I’d fill with dread and fear when I heard the sounds of his heavy steps on the stairs and the creak of my bedroom door opening.

‘If you tell anyone, I’ll kidnap you and we’ll run away together, just the two of us,’ he threatened. ‘You’ll never see your mum or sisters again.’

Sick father James O’Brien.

Mum continued to turn a blind eye to my scratches and bruises from Dad. She acted like everything was normal.

When we all went out to the shops together, I would hold my sister’s hand and we would smile politely at our neighbours.

‘How on earth are your children so well behaved? You must tell me your secret!’ the neighbours joked to my parents. If only they knew my secret.

Dad continued to rape me every week. I was too scared to tell anyone at school, so I grew more and more isolated.

Then, when I was 15, I got my period. ‘That means you can get pregnant,’ a classmate said at school. I felt sick at the thought.

So next time Dad crept into my room, I snapped. ‘No!’ I yelled. ‘Stop!’ From that moment on he didn’t touch me again. I wondered if he knew I could get pregnant.

His verbal abuse continued though, and a year later I finally decided that I had to run away. I couldn’t go on like this.

I started cramming as much as I could into a bag – socks, knickers, and toothbrush. I froze, hearing Dad come up the stairs. He opened the door but I barged past him. Dashing out of the house I just kept on running, until I couldn’t breathe.

I spent two nights sleeping rough. After that I went from sofa to sofa, staying with friends and my auntie, refusing to tell them what had happened. They just thought I was troubled.

Then when I was 20, I met my boyfriend Paul through friends. He was kind and gentle – I’d finally found someone I could trust. We had a perfect whirlwind romance. We had a daughter after a year of being together, then got married two years later.

I received counselling for my trauma and had gotten used to shutting off the first two decades of my life. I was working in childcare, which was my dream career.

Then, one day, social services came into work to talk about child abuse. As they read out a case study of a sexual abuse victim, I felt like it was my story they were telling. The memories came flooding back. That night, I came clean to Paul about my past.

Her mother, Joan

‘I was sexually abused by my father,’ I said tearfully. He was livid, and I had to stop him going after Dad.

‘He’s a monster,’ he raged. ‘You should go to the police.’

‘I just want to move on,’ I said, shaking my head.

But I couldn’t get past it. I arranged to meet with my sister. We’d stayed close, but I’d never told her the truth.

‘I don’t know how to say this,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘Dad raped me. For years.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘He did it to me too, sis,’ she wept. ‘When you left, he started abusing me.’

‘No!’ I gasped. I’d had no idea. My poor little sister. I’d left her in the hands of a monster. We cried and hugged. Neither of us wanted to go to the police. We wanted to forget and move on.

Only, soon after, I was in Tesco when I spotted Mum. As I approached her, my heart thumped as Dad suddenly stepped into view. I felt like I was seven again as I stiffened with fear and my words caught in my throat. Bile rising, I dropped my basket and fled. He was pure evil.

I tried to move on as by this time I had another daughter. I just wanted to live a normal family life, like the one I didn’t have.

Then, one day, a policewoman knocked at my door. ‘We’ve had a report of attempted sexual assault from a young woman at the hands of your father,’ she said. I felt sick. ‘I’ve nothing to add to the investigation,’ I said, closing the door.

It took another three times of police knocking on my door before I finally broke down and told the whole truth. ‘This is your chance to get justice for what you’ve been through,’ the policewoman encouraged.

I agreed to make a statement. It was the first time I’d gone into detail about what happened, and it was traumatic.

Alissa now
CREDIT: Stan Kujawa, Mirrorpix

In time, James O’Brien appeared at Aylesbury Crown Court. Me and Denise gave evidence via video link, revealing how he’d abused us. And how Mum did nothing to stop it.

Our Mum, Joan O’Brien, 70, was sentenced to six years for failing to stop the abuse my sister and I faced.

Dad, 75, was sentenced to 24 years in prison for a string of historic sexual abuse offences between 1972 and 1982 – including six counts of rape and three counts of indecent assault.

But it’s not enough. Dad got to live his entire life and he will probably die before he serves even half of his sentence. I’ve never had the chance to live my life without fear or dread.

What’s worse is because I lived under the same roof as my abuser and my ordeal stopped before 1979, I won’t be receiving any compensation from the government. It’s not the money I care about. It’s the principle. I will not stop campaigning for justice for historic sexual abuse victims.

I was betrayed in the worst way by both my mum and dad. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Now, I want to urge any other victims of sexual abuse to come forward as soon as possible. Don’t let these monsters get away with it.

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Real life story: My husband has taken our baby!

October 13, 2015 by Laura Elvin

My husband has taken our baby! Read the latest domestic violence story that we helped the victim share with the national magazines. You can help those in a similar situation too; use our valuation form to get your story value today.

Read the latest domestic abuse story we’ve helped share this week…

Sitting at home, sipping a cold glass of wine in my pyjamas, I snuggled up on the sofa with my two friends. “This is perfect,” I said to Tom Prichard, 23, and Gary Seinfeld, 25, friends I’d known for over five years. We were enjoying a chilled night in with a glass of wine and a take away. My 11-month-old, Isla was fast asleep upstairs, and my husband Wayne Pollard, 29, was enjoying a night out up the local with his mates.

Wayne and I had been together for five years and married for three. But even though he was the love of my life, his behaviour was sometimes very unpredictable. He was mentally and verbally abusive towards me on a daily basis.

He was very aggressive and would destroy everything around him if we had an argument, he would punch holes in the doors, smash glasses and break any ornament in sight. He would drink too much, treat me horrible, and then say his ‘I’m sorry’s’ afterwards. It had almost become a routine part of our relationship.

So much so, that we often spent nights in other people’s company. As the night drew to a close, and my eyes did too, I ushered the lads on their way. “Right then guys, time for you to go, I’m absolutely knackered.” I said yawning. I knew Wayne would be home soon and it would be nice for him to come back to an empty house… the last thing I wanted was another argument.

“See you later, Sandie. Cheers for a good night,” Gary said. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and put on his coat to leave. “Take care, boys,” I replied. As we approached the front door, I could see a shadow stumbling up the drive way through the glass door. “Great, Wayne’s drunk,” I thought to myself.

I bit my lip in anticipation as to what ‘type of drunk’ he’d be. Gary and Tom were slightly on edge too as they saw the same stumbling figure coming towards them. I kept my cool on the outside, but inside I was a shaking like a leaf – my heart pounding in my ears.

Wayne was fiddling around trying to fit his key into the small lock. “What is he like?” I said trying to make a joke to Gary and Tom, laughing awkwardly. I turned the door knob and Wayne pushed it open with a loud bang. It smacked against the wall, knocking plaster and wallpaper to the floor.

Wayne stumbled in, stinking of alcohol. “Wayne, Isla’s asleep,” I said, taking a step back, trying to shush him. “You all right, Wayne?” Tom asked, nervously, patting him on the back. The boys knew what he could get like. “What the f**K do you think you two are doing here?!” Wayne said aggressively, slurring his words.

The three of us were taken aback, his mood seemed menacing and his actions aggressive. He had meet Tom and Gary before. In fact, Gary was good friends with Wayne long before I’d ever met him. “You always have one too many, Wayne,” I said feeling really embarrassed.

“Right we are, we best be off,” Tom said, trying to leave. “You’re not going anywhere, pal. You boys, around my house, with my wife,” Wayne snarled. He turned to me: “You’re a little slut, you know that? I know exactly what you’ve been doing!” My heart pounded.

What was he going to do next? I thought. I took a step back in case he tumbled on top of me. I tried to control the situation – I knew I had to choose my words carefully, to lighten the mood. He usually came in drunk and raided the fridge for something to eat.

“Wayne, stop being so silly. There’s some food left over if you fancy?” But nothing was going to calm him down. He stormed into the living room and in a fit of rage punched the television, threw it to the floor and smashed it. “Wayne, stop!” I screamed.

Then he went for me. I tried to run but he grabbed my hair and flung me across the living room nearly pulling me down to the ground. He dragged me into the kitchen kicking and screaming. He finally let go, but as I stood up, he landed an almighty blow to my face, punching me to the floor and knocking me out cold.

I came to minutes later in a pool of my own blood. My face was dripping red and my nose felt broken. I could just about make out Gary and Tom trying to restrain Wayne. All I could think of was little Isla. I couldn’t hear her crying upstairs, “no way could she sleep through this,” I thought to myself.

I tried to stand up, but Wayne, who’d managed to break free from Gary and Tom’s grip, pushed me down to the floor once more. He just kept going for me – I was so helpless. I remembered my phone in my dressing gown pocket. I fumbled for it and managed to ring the police. I dialled 999, slowly, careful not to misdial any numbers in my dazed state.

“What’s your emergency?” The operator said. But before I could reply Wayne grabbed the phone off me. Just before he smashed it into tiny pieces, I screamed my address: “17 Margate house…” Bang! My phone was destroyed in pieces on the floor. All I could do was hope and pray they heard me. I knew what he was capable of and I didn’t want to be left alone with him for much longer.

Tom and Gary helped me to my feet as I heard Wayne’s footsteps trample up the stairs. “Are you okay, Sandie? Oh god, there’s blood everywhere,” Tom said passing me a towel to stop the blood. Wayne came crashing down the stairs with a bundle of blankets. He had Isla in his arms, banging into the walls and against the bannister.

“You leave her alone,” I screamed at Wayne. She had no fresh nappies, no overnight bag or any food. I tried to stop him, we all did, but he was too strong. He kicked and punched our family car, denting it, before managing to escape in a car his sister was driving. How he’d managed to call her, I don’t know.

I was terrified I’d never see her again, my heart was broken. It felt like an episode of East Enders. I was waiting for the phone call from police saying they’ve found Isla, dead. In the background I heard faint police sirens getting louder as they drew closer.

“They had heard my screams,” I thought to myself slumped on the ground. The police arrived and I told them what had happened. Tom and Gary had to give witness statements. They had wanted to call police during the incident, but they were too busy holding Wayne back to make the call.

I told them about Isla and within half an hour of another patrol car being sent around, an officer had arrived at my house, holding my baby Isla, who was still sound asleep. “My baby!” I took her from the officer’s outstretched hands, kissed her on her forehead and held her tight to my chest.

“God, I’m so sorry guys,” I sobbed to Gary and Tom. “Are you crazy, Sandie? You did absolutely nothing wrong.” The police informed me that they had arrested Wayne. He was hiding out at his sister’s house. I told Gary and Tom to go home and rest. I felt so embarrassed about what had happened.

Wayne pleaded guilty to assault, damage, and to the theft of my phone and was sentenced to 10 weeks in prison at Blackpool Magistrates Court. He had to pay me £100 compensation, plus £580 for the damage with a £80 victims’ surcharge ordered by District Judge David Stott. The judge said to him: “This was a dreadful offence. You got yourself drunk, became insanely jealous, knocked your wife down, took your daughter and rampaged about.”

The courts offered me a restraining order again my husband, but I declined. Even though he’s a monster of a husband, I still want him in Isla’s life. Every girl deserves to have a father. I have filed for divorce after three years of marriage and five years of our relationship.

I had no idea I was a victim of domestic abuse. I wrote a letter to the court, pleading with them not to send Wayne to jail, I was terrified as to what may follow on his release, but since then I have retracted my letter.

I was also offered a women’s refuge for a few weeks until I felt safe enough to be on my own, but I refused. I grabbed my baby Isla and took her off to bed with me. I’m just glad the monster is behind bars and I can now move on with my life, with my little girl, safe in my arms.

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Horrific incest story: My daughter gave birth to her father’s child

September 28, 2015 by Sell My Story

SellUsYourStory.com helped brave family share their horrific incest story to try and stop it happening to others. Sue had no idea of the horrors taking place in her own home until a DNA test revealed the abuse her ex-husband had been inflicting on her children.

‘Arrrghhh,’ my daughter, Cathy*, shrieked, as a sharp pain surged through her. Huffing and puffing, she was in labour and pushing with all her might. ‘You can do it, keep going,’ I soothed, as she squeezed my hand tightly. ‘The baby’s almost here,’ the midwife told us. ‘Just one more push.’ I moved towards the end of the bed, ready to help with the delivery.

‘It’s a boy!’ I cried, as he arrived and let out a little wail. ‘Do you want to cut the umbilical cord?’ the midwife asked me. I nodded, tears welling in my eyes. This was such a precious moment and I was honoured Cathy had let me be a part of it as her birthing partner. Soon after, she and the baby were discharged from hospital.

As we got ready to leave the maternity unit, I scooped the baby out of his cradle and said: ‘Do you want to carry him?’ ‘No, mum, you take him,’ Cathy insisted. ‘He’s yours now.’ It was the most wonderful gift I could ever have received. At first, when Cathy had told me she was pregnant I was horrified.

She was only 17 and not in a stable relationship or ready for the responsibilities that came with parenthood. ‘Look, I don’t want this child,’ she screamed at me hysterically. Devastated, I begged her to keep it. ‘Let me raise it,’ I pleaded. ‘If you hand the baby to me, I promise you the child will be well looked after.’

Cathy refused, adamant she was having an abortion, but eventually she came around to the idea. I’d been to every scan with her and bought a Moses basket, pushchair and baby grows ready for the new addition. But when he was born I didn’t want to tread on her toes. I let Cathy feed him and change his nappy, just in case they bonded and changed her mind.

Now I knew she was set on going through with the adoption, the baby was officially signed over to me. Together, we decided to name him Damien*. Sleepless nights, non-stop crying and temper tantrums – none of it phased me. Damien was usually a happy little chap.

I was already mum to seven children and treating Damien as if he was my own came naturally. When he uttered his first word – ‘mum’ – my heart swelled with pride. But as he grew, I started to notice he wasn’t developing at the pace my other children had. ‘There’s something not quite right with him,’ I said to my husband John*, 49.

Damien would crawl everywhere. He couldn’t walk at all and if he tried to stand on feet he would topple over. The only words he could say were mum, tractor and yellow. When I expressed my concerns the GP, he just said: ‘Maybe he’s slightly slower than others his age, but he will probably catch up next month.’

But I wouldn’t give up and eventually we were referred to a occupational therapist when Damien was one. ‘I have a feeling it could be Spina Bifida,’ she warned me. I burst into tears, before telling myself: ‘It’s ok, I can deal with that.’ They did tests, but the results came back normal, so we went to a different hospital for a second opinion. There Damien was diagnosed with Metachromatic Leukodystrophy – an extremely rare genetic disorder.

‘Why him?’ I thought to myself. It seemed so unfair. Stunned, I didn’t take in a word the consultant said at the appointment. I left in a daze and when I got home I called the hospital again and asked: ‘What is the condition? What does it mean?’ The consultant told me: ‘I can’t explain it over the phone.’ I asked question after question, but she told me I had to come in, that’s when I knew it must be bad.

‘I’m going to make it easy for you,’ I said, frustrated. ‘Tell me how long he’s got left.’ She wouldn’t give definitive answer, but I knew outlook wasn’t good. When we were told of Damien’s life expectancy, we were heartbroken. They estimated he would survive until he was two. I asked why this had happened and why the medics had never heard of it before. They told me it was very, very rare.

When I later looked it up online and found it usually happened in foreign countries. ‘Wait until I get my hands on Cathy’s ex,’ I raged. ‘I’m going to kill him.’
I blamed her ex-boyfriend – whoever he was – for giving the poor child a death sentence. She never told us who Damien’s dad was. I guess she wouldn’t have known there were any health problems in his family’s history.

Thankfully Damien surpassed doctor’s expectations. Each time he reached the point they said he would pass away they gave him another year to live and then another when he reached that. We cherished every second with him. Cathy wasn’t always around and when she was she and Damien were more like brother and sister. She would often go and visit her own biological father, Alan Curragh, 49, – or Herbie as he was known to everyone – or he would call around to her house.

I had split with Herbie years before. Our relationship had been volatile. Herbie had a short-temper and would regularly become aggressive and violent.
He’d flip over the smallest of things. At tea time if his potato was too lumpy, or there were too many peas on his plate, he’d take it out on me. I was often beaten black and blue and left covered from head to toe in bruises.

‘I wish you wouldn’t spend so much time with your dad,’ I told Cathy, concerned. But Herbie appeared to have an almost unnatural hold on her and she would come back with gifts he had given her, to coax her to spend time with him. By now, Cathy was old enough to do as she pleased.

She had moved out and was living in a place of her own. She could come and go whenever she wanted. Her older sister, Emma, 31, was just as worried as me – and for good reason too… Emma was 14, when she came home one evening, just after I had split with Herbie – her stepdad.

I had Emma and her younger brother before I met Herbie, but he was the only father figure in their lives. I always thought he was great with them. He’d look after them while I was at work. They would play games and he would put them to bed them. But it was Emma’s revelation that made my stomach churn…

Sat in my living room with one of my friends having a glass of wine, Emma walked in and said: ‘Mum, there’s something I need to tell you.’ ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Herbie has been touching me where I don’t like it,’ she blurted out. ‘Are you serious?’ I cried. I had alcohol in my system, but I was so angry I grabbed my car keys off the side and drove towards his flat. As I careered around the corner and on to his road, I lost control and crashed into a parked vehicle, flipping my car on to its roof.

Luckily there was no one in it and I wasn’t injured either, but I was arrested. I knew there were no excuses for driving under the influence, but I tried to explain the circumstances to the police. Herbie was swanning around, free to live his life as he chose to. After what he’d done to Emma I vowed to get justice. When I saw him in the street I was fuming.

‘I will get you back for what you’ve done,’ I spat at him. But he just laughed it off, which only made my blood boil more. He had hurt my little girl. Emma had told me I had been out of the house when Herbie first pounced on her. She was just five years old. ‘Do you want to play?’ Herbie had asked her. She smiled, enjoying the attention he lavished on her.

Herbie then picked her up and bounced her up and down on his knee, as she giggled with delight. Then he moved his hands in between her legs. Emma froze.
It was painful, but she was too shocked and frightened to move. Whenever Herbie was alone with her, he would abuse her. He did it while he was driving, while I was at work and even at Emma’s grandparents’ house.

He was right under my nose the whole time and I had no idea. Emma told me he even pulled out a gun, stuck it in her mouth and told her if she ever told anyone he would kill her and then me. Sometimes he’d throw money at her when he was finished. It made me feel sick to the stomach… Emma said she tried to fight back one day, but it was the worst thing she could have done because I paid for it, double, in front of her when Herbie lashed out me.

My poor daughter even ended up scarred because she washed herself in bleach after the abuse and I was completely oblivious. To make matters worse, after finally confessing what had been happening, when she was a teen, Emma couldn’t cope and took an overdose of pills. It was a desperate cry for help. Although we had reported the abuse to the police, I realised Emma was too fragile to pursue the allegations and endure the court process.

I desperately wanted her to seek justice for what Herbie had put her through, but I knew she wasn’t strong enough. Over the years, I tried to keep the rest of the family – especially the children – away from their dad. He was a beast. But he drew them in and I was powerless to stop them from seeing him if they wanted to. ‘You’re old enough to make up your own mind now,’ I said to Cathy. ‘But please be careful. He’s not the man you think he is.’

I prayed his sick abuse had come to an end. Cathy had said things in the past that had worried me, but I could never be sure. She refused to stop seeing him altogether. No matter what I tried to ward her off him, he would always talk her around and worm his way back into her life. But Cathy later confirmed my worst nightmares…

‘Herbie’s been raping me mum,’ she whispered, as she perched on the end of my bed. Shaking with rage, I couldn’t ask her the question whirling in my mind. ‘How long had he been doing this? Was Damien his child?’ ‘Get me the phone,’ I cried. Automatically, I called the police and an officer came around to speak to Cathy. ‘Tell them every last detail,’ I instructed her.

I knew the children – even though they were now young adults – weren’t resilient enough to take Herbie to court. But I felt if I could be strong and brave for the two of them, the truth would find its way out somehow… Only when I told Emma I was planning on going to the police and pressing ahead this time, she turned around and said: ‘I will too, mum.’

‘I’m ready now,’ she told me. We sought legal advice and although there wasn’t enough evidence for me to go ahead with mine, Emma could and vowed to do it for the both of us. Herbie was arrested and in 2011 he was tried for abusing Emma. But the jury failed to reach a verdict after he forced Cathy to take to the stand against her sister in court.

Cathy had had been totally brainwashed by him. She genuinely believed she was in an intimate relationship with Herbie. It was sick. He was supposed to be her dad, not her boyfriend. Diagnosed with Bipolar Psychotic Disorder when she was in her early teens, it was clear he had preyed on her because she was vulnerable.

She was groomed from such a young age to do as she was told by him. She knew no different. He had a hold over her, she didn’t have her own thoughts and wasn’t able to make up her own mind. She did whatever he told her to. When we confronted her after the trial ended in a hung jury, she admitted: ‘He told me what to say, word for word. ‘I agreed because I thought bad things would happen again if I didn’t.’

Rather than being angry, Emma and I felt sorry for Cathy. At the same time we couldn’t help but resent her for causing the case to fall apart. It was clear she was petrified of Herbie. He had told her to say Emma’s allegations were all lies and that we had been sitting at home plotting against him and making it all up. Sobbing, Cathy said: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do.’

Emma was then pulled into a room. ‘I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to answer me honestly,’ her barrister warned her. ‘Do you know who Damien’s biological father is?’ ‘No,’ Emma told her, shaking her head. ‘Do you have even an inkling who it might be?’ she asked. ‘I’ve always suspected that he could be Herbie’s. Damien is so similar to him, but I can’t say for sure,’ Emma told her. ‘I just have a horrible feeling I can’t shake off.’

‘That’s all I needed to hear,’ she said, before making a request for DNA testing which was approved by the judge. Until the DNA test, I had never dreamt Damien could be Herbie’s baby, but Emma had got me thinking. Swabs were taken and within four weeks the results came back. A police officer called me, as I was out shopping in B&Q for new tiles, and said: ‘I need you to come home now.’

‘What is it?’ I said, panicking. ‘It’s important, we need to talk to you,’ she told me. I rushed back and they revealed the results of the DNA test. ‘Damien was conceived incestuously – his biological father is Herbie and his biological mother is Cathy,’ the officer said. I collapsed into a heap on the floor, inconsolable.

‘Who does that make me?’ I sobbed. I thought of myself as Damien’s mum, but was I actually his grandmother? Sickened, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the poor child. ‘It’s not his fault,’ my husband, John, said. ‘He’s just a little boy caught up in the middle of all of this. You can’t blame him.’ I knew he was right.

‘He’s still the same Damien,’ John reassured me. I was determined not to let the results shatter the love I had for Damien. But I couldn’t help but hate Cathy and I told her so. Why had she never told me? She must have known deep down that Herbie was the father or did she not? Then a retrial was ordered.

The judge had realised how manipulated Cathy had been so no perjury charges were brought against her. In time, I realised Cathy was a victim in all of this too. Herbie was the monster. Cathy told me the DNA result made her realise she had to escape him, he had ruined her life. She was finally seeing him for what he was.

At the re-trial, Herbie forced Emma to take to the stand again and relive the years of hell she suffered as a child. He admitted to five charges of indecent assault on Cathy from 1995 to 2006, and two counts of rape between November 2002 and November 2006. This time he was found guilty and sentenced to 13 years in jail – eight years for abusing Emma, and five years, concurrent, for the incest in which Damien was conceived.

He was told that he will serve a further 16 years on top of another eight year prison sentence for abusing and raping daughter Cathy since she was just six years old. Herbie was just like Fritzl – after the infamous Austrian rapist. That’s what Emma and Cathy have nicknamed him. Sadly, Damien, who was six at the time, died from his rare genetic disorder in the same month that the trial ended.

When the judge said in court that he had passed away Herbie didn’t even flinch. We were all devastated beyond words. The sentencing brought some closure to the years of hell Herbie put us all through. But nothing will ever bring back Damien. He destroyed so many lives, but worst of all he gave a sweet, innocent child a death sentence. I hope he rots in hell. Emma said:

‘Plucking up the courage to tell my mum about my stepdad, Herbie, abusing me was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
‘But as I walked through the front door and heard her laughing and joking with her friend, I started to get angry.
‘How could she sit there as happy as Larry, while I was living with what her husband had been doing?
‘I knew I had to tell her and when I finally blurted it out, I watched as she stormed out of the house to confront him.
‘They had only just split up and he was living a few miles away.
‘She was shaking with rage. I’d never seen her so angry or upset.
‘I knew then she couldn’t have had any idea what Herbie had been putting me through over the years.
‘I was only a five when he started abusing me.
‘We went on a mini break to a caravan park as a family.
‘Herbie said to me: ‘I’ll take you to the showers.’
‘At first he just watched me as I cleaned myself, but then he started to touch me.
‘It hurt, but I was too frightened to say or do anything other than what he told me to.
‘I thought it was a one-off and quickly pushed it to the back of my mind.
‘When we got home, Herbie would look after me and my brothers and sisters, while mum went to work.
‘He’d pull me up on to his knee and bounce me up and down.
‘I’d giggle, enjoying his undivided attention.
‘But my delight quickly turned to sheer terror when Herbie gradually moved his hand up between my legs.
‘I winced in pain, too scared to leap of his lap.
‘I was so young that before long Herbie’s sick behaviour became normal to me. I knew no different.
‘Although he wasn’t my real dad, I looked up to him as a father figure. And I thought all daddies treated their little girls in the same way he did to show them they loved them.
‘Whenever Herbie got an opportunity he would abuse me – after school, at the weekends, even at my grandparents house. There was no escaping him.
‘It was only when I got older that I started to realise it was wrong and when he and mum split up I was relieved.
‘Only then I discovered he wasn’t just abusing me – he’d been preying on my younger sister, Cathy, too.
‘Herbie had gone further with Cathy than he had with me – he raped her.
‘She was quieter than me. Diagnosed with bipolar at 13, she was more vulnerable too.
‘At the age of 17, she’d had a little boy and unable to cope, she had given him to our mum to bring up.
‘I started to doubt little Damien’s paternity, now I knew what Herbie had been doing.
‘When I felt strong enough to face Herbie in court, he convinced Cathy to take the stand against me.
‘He had such a hold over her. I knew she had been controlled by him.
‘That trial ended in a hung jury, but my barrister ordered a DNA test to find out who Damien’s biological father was and after that a retrial was ordered.
‘I felt physically sick when the DNA results came back proving Herbie had fathered Cathy’s child.
‘At that stage Cathy finally realised just how manipulated she had been by him. But to make matters worse, poor Damien had genetic problems and was constantly so ill due to being conceived through incest.
‘When Herbie was finally convicted and jailed, Damien passed away.
‘We will never have justice for what he did to us. He destroyed our whole family.
‘Damien was a sweet, innocent boy. He didn’t deserve to die, but because of Herbie his life was over before it had even begun.’

If you have been the victim of any crime, abuse or domestic violence and would like to tell your story, please contact us today. Simply fill out the story valuation form on this page and one of our friendly, trained writers will get back to you straight away. You only have to provide the basic details of your story (just a few bullet points) to give us an idea of what you’ve been through.

There is no obligation and nothing will ever be used without your consent. However, we will be able to let you know how much you could be paid for your story and who is most likely to publish it for you. Our service is free to you and we help hundreds of victims share their stories every year.

If you would like to read more about selling a story generally, see our Sell My Story page here: https://www.sellusyourstory.com/sell-my-story/

You can see a selection of recent client’s stories below.

My partner tried to kill me

June 29, 2015 by Laura Elvin

We help client share her horrific domestic violence story after she contacted us saying ‘my partner tried to kill me’. SellUsYourStory arranged an exclusive deal with top selling women’s weekly Take a Break.

As I sat on the sofa with my feet up watching the telly, my partner Dean, 39, brought me a cup of tea.

Sitting down next to me, he kissed me on the cheek. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘it’ll be red hot.’ He was always so caring and after a year together, I started to forget how lucky I was to have him. The second year of our relationship started as good as the first; Dean would buy me chocolates, help me around the house and even take me out on surprise dates.

Once I came home from work, he swept me off my feet and told me to: ‘go and get ready, we’re going out.’ We went for a three course romantic dinner on a school night. It was a lovely surprise. But just over a year in I started noticing a change in his character. He became sullen and insecure. I knew he liked a drink but when he began drinking at home, and drinking heavily, I knew something was wrong. The cups of tea and kisses stopped and we were arguing more than usual.

‘Maybe we’re just passed the honeymoon stage,’ I thought to myself. Dean would check my phone daily and ask if I’d spoken to any men while out shopping, I’d not given him any reason to doubt me at all. He seemed paranoid. Weeks later, when I came home in Newcastle, I dumped my bags on the sofa, I was greeted by an alcohol-fuelled Dean.

‘I know you’ve been seeing other men, Nicola,’ he said aggressively, grabbing me by the throat and pinning me against the wall. Terrified and stricken with fear, I couldn’t breathe as he lifted me off the floor with his bare hands. “I haven’t. I swear,” I said, through desperate gulps of air. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. He let me go and I fell to the floor.

I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that Dean had just hurt me. I was too scared at that point to call the police. I knew he’d had a drink too, and it wasn’t the ‘real Dean’ who’d attacked me. But how could I forgive him? Later that night, after he’d sobered up a bit, he brought me a cup of tea and apologised. ‘It wasn’t me, babes,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what came over me, but I’m so sorry.’ I decided to forgive him. It was after all the first time he’d done anything like that.

But as the weeks went on, there was no improvement in Dean’s bad behaviour. I would come home most nights to find empty cans of beer on the side, along with the usual, ‘Who have you been sleeping with tonight?’ from a drunk Dean. He would continue to accuse me of seeing other men, and the one time I disagreed and pleaded my case, he lunged for my throat once more. But despite forgiving him, I was becoming scared of his abusive behaviour and ridiculous accusations.

I would cower away every time he raised his voice and I began to feel like a prisoner in my own home. I was so insecure, I wouldn’t go to work. I would dread seeing him and saying something wrong in case he lashed out at me. It was like walking on egg shells. The day it went too far was when Dean punched me in the face, after yet another argument about my supposed cheating. He knocked me to the floor to and knocked one of my teeth out too.

Dean’s rages were uncontrollable, they were all alcohol fueled and bought on by jealously. I never knew why he would get so aggressive towards me, all of his attacks her unprovoked and he was just a violent man. So, after a year of abuse, I ended it with Dean in March 2013. It was so difficult leaving him after all the good times we’d had together but I was strong woman and he had make me weak – I just couldn’t live as a punching bag anymore.

Dean pleaded with me, saying he needed me, but it was no excuse. I had to leave before I became trapped for good in a domestically abusive relationship. Dean was surprisingly civil about the break-up when I first told him, and he agreed it was the best thing for both of us. I was dumb-founded. But it felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and I could take charge of my life again. I packed my bags and moved into a friend’s house.

But, hours later, his actions turned menacing. I checked my phone and was greeted by over 30 text messages, 40 missed calls and 14 voice messages. My heart raced with worry, and with every text I read my heart started to beat faster. ‘I’m going to kill you, I’m going to hunt you down and slit your throat.’ I could barely keep hold of the phone for shaking. I listened to his voicemail: ‘Your mum will have to explain to her grandchildren why their mum is dead.’

By now I was in floods of tears, but the hate kept on coming. ‘The last face you’ll see will be mine, just before I slit your throat.’ I was so frightened for my life and I didn’t doubt for a second he wouldn’t follow through with his vile threats. I decided to go to the police about Dean’s abuse. I was armed with my phone and the evidence of his death threats.

Early the next day, after a sleepless night, I was on my way to the police station when my phone started to vibrate. I was shaking when I pulled it from my pocket and put the phone to my ear. After a few seconds of silence, a familiar voice said: ‘I can see you.’ ‘Who is this?’ I said with a panicked voice, although I already knew. I started to pick up the pace, knowing the police station was only a few doors away.

‘You’re a bit dressed up to be going to a recruitment meeting,’ the voice said. I stopped dead in my tracks, I started to sweat and my heart started to beat like crazy. ‘I told you I was going to hunt you down and slit your throat.’ It was Dean. I looked around me hastily. It was ten past nine on a busy Friday morning and Dean was nowhere to be seen. ‘I’m holding a large steak knife, with a sharp blade. Do you know what I’m going to do with it?’ the voice in my ear continued.

Although I was only a few yards from the police station I didn’t want to hang up. I wanted them to hear exactly what he was saying. But I was still terrified and couldn’t get there fast enough. ‘I’m going to plunge it into your throat, slit it across and I’m going to kill you,’ said Dean psychotically. Suddenly I was right outside the police station.

I looked up and saw Dean crossing the road towards me. Frozen stiff, with the phone still at my ear, he knocked me to ground with all his force, sat on my chest and started to lunge the knife into my throat. My arms and legs were all over the place, I was screaming: ‘Help me! Help me!’ Strangers stopped dead in their tracks, too scared or shocked to move. ‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘I’m going to die.’

I was doing everything in my power to stop the knife slitting my throat. It all happened so fast. The knife sunk into my hand like butter and grazed my throat. There was blood everywhere and people started to run. ‘I’m only doing this,’ he said, ‘because you told me I wouldn’t,’ he raged, thrusting the knife up and down. It wasn’t until a very brave man pushed Dean off me that it stopped. I’m not sure the man was, but I would like to know and thank him for saving my life.

Dean got up, looked around, put the knife into his jacket pocket and strolled off slowly down the street, as if on a Sunday morning stroll. I couldn’t believe I had survived the attack. Passers-by helped me to my feet and into the police station. I was shocked that not one police officer came to help me, but by that point I was just glad to still be alive.

Dean was sentenced to three and a half years in prison at Newcastle Crown Court and I have a life-time restraining order against him. Nearly a year later, my sleep pattern is still mixed up, every time I close my eyes I see Dean lunging the knife into my throat. If the attack would have taken place on a quieter street, or even at night, I’m sure I would have been killed.

Dean has made me a stronger person and the only thing that makes me feel safe at night is the permanent restraining order against him. I have moved on with my life, I live in my own house and have even had a promotion in work.

If you would like to sell a similar true story to ‘My partner tried to kill me’ or you would like to share any other story with a magazine or newspaper, we are here to help. Our free service helps you to share your story and help others in a similar situation, and achieve the highest fee possible.

Simply complete the form on this page to inform us about your story (you only need to provide a little detail about what happened) and one of our team will call you to discuss your options and provide a story valuation.

If you would like more information, you can read more about the story selling process here: Sell My Story

One of the Worst Cases of Domestic Violence the Police have Ever Seen

March 11, 2015 by Harriet Rose-Gale

Have you been the victim of domestic violence? We help hundreds of brave victims share their stories with the press to help warn others in similar situations. It’s important to highlight the issue through the media and raise awareness. We helped Suzanne Thomas, 32, tell her story. Police said it was ‘one of the worst cases of domestic violence they have ever seen’.

Slipping on a pair of stilettos I glanced at my reflection in the mirror one last time before leaving my home in Nottingham for a night out with the girls. “Let’s get going ladies,” I called out to my friends before we tottered down the road and into the waiting taxi. As usual I was wearing one of my signature mini dresses to show off my tanned legs. Feeling confident in my freshly bronzed skin, I couldn’t help but smile when my friend told me that Jason McLean was out tonight.

I’d met Jason through mutual friends a few weeks earlier and I couldn’t wait to see him again. Luckily he seemed just as keen as me. After spending all night by each others side we spent the next few weeks exchanging text messages. I suggested we kept things casual at first but I soon became smitten with how sweet and charming he was. “He’s so protective of me,” I gushed to my friends, “I feel like I could trust him with anything.” In March 2013 I was delighted when we finally made our relationship official. Five months later I asked him to move in with me.

It seemed like the next natural step for us but the reality of living under one roof together didn’t turn out to be as perfect as I’d hoped. Jason and I were bickering more than we talked. He would pick fights over the smallest things and on one occasion he really lost his temper and gave me a shove that smashed my head into a wall. “Sorry Suzanne,” he muttered later but I didn’t feel like he truly meant it. I found myself tip-toeing around him more and more, frightened of doing anything to annoy him because I didn’t know how he might react.

Things were getting out of control and I didn’t feel like my usual bubbly self any more. Reminding myself that he was the one living in my house, I plucked up the courage to confront him about his mood swings. “Things just aren’t working out Jason,” I told him firmly. “I want you to pack up your things and move out of my house.” I was disappointed to be calling time on our relationship so soon but deep down I knew I was making the right decision. Jason packed a bag and left the same day saying he’d collect the rest of his things later.

My friends did their best to cheer me up and suggested I meet them at a pub in town rather than sitting alone at home. While we were out I had a few missed calls from Jason but I just wanted to forget about him and switched my phone off. At half four in the morning my friends and I decided to call it a night and one of my friends offered to walk me home. As soon as we approached the front door I noticed something wasn’t quite right. “That’s strange, my living room window is wide open.” “Did you not leave it that way?” said my friend. “No” I replied shaking my head in confusion.

Then through the glass I spotted a figure lurking inside. It was Jason. In his hand I could make out a large knife with a black handle that I immediately recognised as one from my kitchen. He pushed the window open further and leapt through it. As he approached me all I could see was the rage burning in his eyes. “Just calm down, Jason,” I said as softly as I could as he ranted and called me a slag. He demanded I open the front door with my key and I was so scared I thought I had no choice but to do what he said.

The next thing I knew he’d pulled me into the house and pushed me to the ground. I lay pressed to the carpet as he stamped repeatedly on my head and face. “Please stop!” I yelled through my sobs but there was nothing I could say to get through to him. Wrapping my arms tight across my head I tried to protect myself as best I could but as the kicks continued I slowly began to lose consciousness. When I woke the first thing I saw was Jason standing over me. He was clutching my kettle in his hands. Then I felt sharp splashes hitting my lap as I lay on the ground. Jason continued to empty the freshly boiled water over my stomach and onto my arms and legs. “Do you want another one?” he screamed at me.

I didn’t have a choice. Before I could plead with him he dissipated back to the kitchen to boil a second pot. I feared for my life but thankfully, Jason was stopped in his tracks by the blare of police sirens getting closer. My friend had managed to flag down a passing car after Jason had dragged me into the house. The officers burst in but not before Jason had managed to escape by scampering out the back door. When they found me I was in complete agony and had to be taken to hospital straight away to have the burns scrubbed and assessed in theatre.

The hospital staff gasped when they saw the extent of my injuries. I suffered third degree burns and they told me that if Jason had succeeded in pouring the second kettle I might not have survived. After I had a CT scan to assess the damage to my head I was put on a special unit to recover as my blistered skin was shedding frantically. When the bandages were taken off to be replaced I could see the drip marks etched on my skin where each bit of scolding water had splashed me. The pain was so bad that it would take weeks before I could even attempt to walk again.

Although I was slowly recovering my nightmare still wasn’t over. The police still hadn’t caught Jason and I was sick with fear that he was on the loose. Then one day as I lay in my hospital bed my worst fear came true – Jason came to pay me a visit. I froze as his eyes scanned over my bandages taking in the extent of the damage he caused. “You haven’t seen anything yet, if you think this is bad see what comes next,” he sneered. I desperately wanted to scream out and run away but I was hooked up to morphine drip and in so much pain. Luckily Jason didn’t stick around. As soon as he was gone I told a nurse what happened and reported it to the police but weeks later there was still no sign of him.

After leaving hospital I moved in with my Mum to help with my recovery. We had a panic button installed in the house because I was so frightened Jason might come and see me again. Finally, in November 2013, a month after the attack, Jason handed himself into the police. He pleaded not guilty to all charges so I had to give evidence against him in court. As he stood in the docks he showed no remorse for his actions. He smirked at my family and laughed when evidence was being given. But thankfully I got the justice I deserved when he was found guilty of Grievious Body Harm with intent and sentenced to 14 years. In their statement the police said it was one of the worst cases of domestic violence they’d ever seen. Knowing he’d be inside for such a long time was a relief but it won’t take away the scars I’ll carry for the rest of my life.

What Jason did to me that night has completely changed my life. Before the attack I loved showing off my figure and tanning my skin but now I’m unable go outside at all without applying a high factor sun cream. I’ve been warned against swimming in chlorine pools but I can’t even face having a bath as my fear of water still haunts me. One of the hardest things to deal with is knowing that Jason was someone I trusted and loved. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let someone get close to me again.

If you have a domestic abuse story that you would like to share with the media, we are here to help. Not only will we hold your hand every step of the way, we will ensure that you get the best fee for yourself or a charity of your choice. Nothing will ever be printed without your permission and we can make sure that everything is checked by you before it appears in a magazine.

Simply contact our friendly and professional team using the ‘story valuation’ form on the right hand side of this page. Just provide a brief outline of what happened to you. This will go straight to our features team who will call you or email you back.

You can see a small selection of domestic violence stories that we’ve written for women’s magazines here: https://www.sellusyourstory.com/news/category/domestic-violence-abuse/ You can also read more about selling a story to a magazine on our sell my story page.

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